


No One Will Ever Thank You

by Arcanista



Series: Our Own Sins [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Between 'Here Lies the Abyss' and 'Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts', Conversations, Gen, Late Night Conversations, Mid-Canon, POV Third Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 01:32:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3190808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcanista/pseuds/Arcanista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inquisitor Lavellan seeks out Warden Loghain for one conversation on the battlements of Skyhold before he leaves for Weisshaupt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No One Will Ever Thank You

**Author's Note:**

> Had this scene in my head for a while... even if it means I'm going to have to replay her just to have him present. Stupid messed-up Keep import.

The battlements are one of the quietest places in Skyhold, especially at sunset. Never truly quiet, but far enough away that the bustle from below dims into a distant hum, with only the footfalls of patrollers intruding on his solitude. And they give him a wide berth. Wider than he would have wanted, once, but time and history change a man. A quiet night with a bottle of wine are a good night for him these days, especially with a long journey ahead.

One set of footsteps draws nearer, sharp and precise. "Warden Loghain?"

He turns to the voice. "Inquisitor." She is ascending the stairs, amber eyes flashing in the dimming light. She is swathed in a heavy cloak against the cold, one far too big for her. It makes her look almost a child, but Loghain has seen enough of her to not make that mistake. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The Inquisitor moves to stand beside him, looking out over the mountains. She tugs the cloak tighter around her. "I wanted to ask you something," she says. "I'm not certain you'll appreciate it, but I'm not liable to get another chance."

Of course. Loghain sighs. She has avoided the subject in any great detail before now, but he should have known. He raises the bottle, taking a swig. "Ask your questions, then."

She does not, not right away. The Inquisitor stares out at the light dying over the mountains, before she turns her head away from a sudden breeze, and up at him. "Does it ever get any easier?"

Not the question he expected. Not one that he's been asked before. He looks down at her, lowering the wine-bottle. "What do you mean?"

"Living with it, I mean," she says, and she tugs the cloak closer again. A moment more, and then she adds, soft but steady, "With what you did. Please, I'm not asking out of some sick curiosity. I need to know.

Loghain looks down at the Inquisitor, at this elf-girl likely young enough to be his grand-daughter. Who strode through Adamant fortress and spoke with a general's voice, who only quailed when the Nightmare offered to take more of her memories. No, this is most definitely not an academic question to her. He tells her the truth. "No. It doesn't."

Her slim shoulders sink, and she looks back into the distance. "I didn't think so," she says. "But I needed to hear it. I think a part of me still hoped." Her manicured hands emerge from the cloak. She looks down to them, and exhales. "All this blood, and only more to come. But someone must do it. And so I must."

"And so you must," Loghain agrees. He extends the bottle to her. She takes it, drinks, passes it back. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "The Warden with you," he says. "I cannot be certain under these circumstances, but something is not right." He cannot tell more than that, not with the constant thrum of the Calling in the back of his mind. But whatever it is, she should be aware.

"To do with the Wardens?" the Inquisitor asks, waits for Loghain's nod. She sighs. "I've known for a while something's-- odd there. I don't know enough about you to know if he's just protecting your secrets or something else. But he gets evasive. I hope it's only a matter of internal politics or something like that; maybe he's just not in as good standing as he's suggested. But I..." here she hesitates visibly, shakes her head. "If he's not ready to talk about it, then I trust him enough to believe I can let it go in favour of more important things. Maker knows I have enough to worry about. I may regret it later, but we all have regrets. I don't think I can afford to endanger my only peace by forcing the issue."

"So long as you are aware," says Loghain.

"I appreciate the thought," says the Inquisitor. Her fingers twist at each other, poking out through the cloak. "It means more than you know."

Loghain offers her the bottle again. Appreciation is an alien reaction to him. Silence comes easier. The Inquisitor drinks again, lets out a breath. He drinks too, when she passes the bottle back.

"Thank you," she says.

"For telling you?"

"For doing what had to be done," she says. "All of it. It wasn't right. But it was necessary." And she looks up at him, and she smiles. Just a tiny little bit.

Loghain's expression remains unmoved. "I don't know what to say to that," he says. "It's not something I hear every day. As I'm sure you can imagine." He drains the bottle, lets it hang from one hand.

"I can," says the Inquisitor. "It's why it was important to say." And she rises up onto her tiptoes, pressing a kiss to Loghain's cheek, quick and daughterly.

Her perfume is thick and heavy, filled with promises that her voice and body do not make. Not to him, anyway. For a moment, he feels envious of her Warden, but only a moment. He looks down at her, eyebrows raised.

She shrugs, and offers a faint smile. "It's been an honour knowing you, Warden," she says. "If you were to keep in touch on your journey north, I would be fascinated to hear of your travels. Or if you wished to write your daughter, I could see to it that anything sent here was passed on to Denerim with all possible haste."

Loghain nods to her. "I might take you up on that. Friendly faces are rare for any Warden." Least of all himself. At least he might go unrecognized through most of the journey to Weisshaupt.

The Inquisitor tugs her cloak off and drapes it over her arm. She holds it out to him. "As long as I'm Inquisitor, there's one friendly face in Skyhold. Here. I'm going inside, and you look cold. Return it before you leave. Or keep it, if you like. I have more of these things than I know what to do with."

Loghain takes the cloak, draws it over his shoulders. "Thank you, Inquisitor," he says. "I will remember this."

The Inquisitor turns away from him, pats his arm. "Dareth shiral, Warden." She walks away, down the stairs, and is gone.

The cloak is warm and well-used. Loghain pulls it close then turns back to the mountains. He lobs the empty wine-bottle off into the distance, and waits for the sun to set.


End file.
